


Trust issues

by valiantfindekano



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, welcome to rarepair hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 21:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10839690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantfindekano/pseuds/valiantfindekano
Summary: Gaspard wants to talk. Michel is doubtful.  (One of those fics/pairs that no one else was going to write, so I did.)





	Trust issues

Gaspard, to his credit, has not moved into the rooms Celene used to keep as her private quarters. Michel had rarely been permitted inside himself, but the principle of the matter still would have made him bristle with indignation. Granted, he does not know what has become of those rooms now – storage, perhaps, unless they are housing whatever hunting trophies haven’t made it to more prominent locations around the palace. Michel has no intention of asking.

 

Still, Gaspard is not a man of poor taste.

 

Michel drops to a knee on the dark red carpet that runs the length of the room. _My lord,_ he nearly greets, but he catches it just in time. His voice still sounds clipped, but it isn’t the last minute change in intention that is the main reason for that.

 

“—Majesty.”

 

Beneath the lower rim of his mask, Gaspard’s dark moustache twitches, the corner of his mouth twisting up into a smile. “Get up, Michel. There’s no need for that right now.”

 

Michel hesitates, but he rises, if only to stand uncomfortably rooted in place. “You wanted to discuss the conditions of my appointment, Majesty?”

 

Gaspard merely waves a hand at that. “Eventually, but I see no reason to hurry. There are more pressing matters than undoing Celene’s mistakes—” He pauses. “Or more pressing mistakes to undo, maybe. Consider this a more private sort of invitation.”

 

Michel narrows his eyes. Maybe it’s nothing more than Gaspard wishing to share a glass of port wine with him and reminisce about Celene’s rule. He expects, too, that at some point his involvement with the Inquisition will come into question, but he has nothing he needs to hide there, nothing that he must defend himself over. His service comes first to Orlais, no matter who claims the throne; Gaspard of all people should understand that, having taken the same vows at graduation. If it’s something private, does that mean it’s about his family, his title? He’s tired. He won’t—

 

“Port, Ser Michel?” Gaspard has been busy pouring at his desk. Two glasses, one of which he takes in hand and extends towards Michel, though he makes no move to step closer. It’s not unlike the horse trainers holding out a handful of sugar when trying to coax a new colt to accept a rope for the first time.

 

“I prefer not to drink, Majesty,” Michel answers warily, but he takes a cautious step closer nonetheless. Celene had known better than to ask, so he had never needed to refuse her offers. But it’s another thing to refuse the new emperor and a respected chevalier.

 

Gaspard, evidently, is feeling forgiving. “I thought you might say that,” he replies, unperturbed. “It’s not poisoned. They say that’s a woman’s weapon, and we both know I could have you killed in a number of more creative ways if I wanted that.”

 

“I’m not worried about poison.”

 

“A loose tongue, then?”

 

Michel doesn’t answer.

 

“I already know your secrets,” Gaspard continues. He shrugs, though, and takes an experimental sip from the glass, then another, longer sip. “Unless you have a few more to hide since we last parted ways.”

 

Is that a test? “The Inquisition did what I could not do, and killed the demon Imshael. I chose to aid them out of a sense of debt.” A pass of his tongue over lips that have suddenly gone dry. “They are doing good work.”

 

Gaspard sets his glass down and reaches for the other. For a second, he gives Michel a scrutinizing look, but this time he moves to step close enough to press the glass into the younger chevalier’s hand. “Have a sip or two of this, my boy. You’re going to want it, I believe.”

 

It’s too sweet for Michel’s liking, but he obeys, mirroring Gaspard’s small sip and a larger one to follow.

 

“You have a good heart, Michel,” Gaspard begins, which can’t be the start of anything pleasant. Another tenuous sip, then, as Michel feels his stomach start to drop. “I like that about you. I am almost sorry to be the one to tell you that your Inquisition … your _Herald_ knew Celene would die, and allowed it to happen.”

 

— _knew? Allowed?_

 

With less composure, the glass might have slipped from Michel’s hand and onto the carpet, burgundy on burgundy. The taste goes sour in his mouth, and for a second he feels as if everything around him grows too still. “They … knew?”

 

Gaspard’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder. To steady him, maybe, but for a second it feels too heavy and too hot, and Michel grits his teeth. “They seem to believe that I will support their plans better than she would have.”

 

“How convenient for you.” Around the glass, Michel’s fingers twitch, and he forces himself to swallow, to rinse the lingering taste of wine from his mouth. He tries to fix his gaze straight ahead, but for one quick moment, his eyes flicker towards Gaspard’s face. “They must have informed you it would happen too, Majesty. Your own sister, I heard …”

 

The smile that settles on the emperor’s face looks almost sad for a second, though Michel knows better than to trust such looks anymore. “On my honor, Michel, I would have killed Florianne myself if I had known her intentions. I won’t insult you by pretending I did not ask for the throne, but the last thing I would have wanted was for my cousin to be murdered so a fanatic could take her place.”

 

Gaspard’s left hand remains on Michel’s left shoulder, but he steps behind him and reaches around to gently pry the glass out of Michel’s hand. It is not empty, but perhaps he had noticed the tension in his fingers and decided to intervene on the behalf of the crystal and the carpet.

 

Three sips of port and an unwanted revelation … Michel’s head spins already from the combination.

 

“I trusted them.”

 

“I know.” Gaspard’s touch has left, and he responds from next to the desk where he replaces the glass. It takes only a few strides for him to return to his previous position, however, and this time his hand alights on Michel’s hip.

 

If Michel leaned back slightly, his back would find support against Gaspard’s chest, against the velvet doublet with its medals of honour decorating its surface. Instead, he tenses, not least because of the voice that hisses past his ear, close enough that his lips might almost brush past at the slightest movement from Michel. He can almost feel the edge of Gaspard’s golden mask. Any closer and it might brush against his own.

 

“You trust too easily,” Gaspard accuses. _That,_ more than anything else he has said this evening, has the sound of a genuine threat, and Michel’s breath catches. “I do not need a champion as Celene did, but I need guards that can keep assassins away from me, advisors that will not spill my secrets to every willing ear.”

 

Michel’s eyes close, and his head angles slightly to the side. “I kept Celene’s secrets for ten years, Majesty, and mine for twenty. And I have sworn before your court to keep you safe.” He swallows. “Forgive me for saying it, but you’re too slow to trust.”

 

He’s expecting the tug of Gaspard’s hand that finally brings their bodies against one another, as well as the brush of whiskers the Emperor’s mouth finds the line of exposed skin above his collar. Gaspard’s kisses are open-mouthed and rough as they trace up and along Michel’s jawline, and he lets out an almost imperceptible sigh.

 

It’s not quite an embrace that Gaspard holds him in. There’s a second while he holds them both still, and Michel can only guess when the older man smiles from the shape of the words that follow.

 

“Then we will have to find a comfortable middle ground, won’t we?”


End file.
